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"That was the greatest thing I've seen in a while," he says. He hoists himself onto the bar, then swings his legs over to the other side. The bartender looks at the shirtless guitar player but says nothing as he grabs a bottle of top-shelf vodka and takes it back over the bar with him. "What's your name?"

"Teagan."

"I'm Luca," he says.

"Yeah…I know who you are."

"Really?" he says, taking a swig from the bottle. "Who am I, then, Teagan?"

He half smiles, and green eyes run up and down my body, leaving a trail of heat in their wake. He runs his hands through his dirty blonde hair and waits.

There's something about musicians—it's true. Everything about them exudes sex appeal; they're irresistible. But this man in front of me…he's the living, breathing embodiment of human carnality. Do I think his brother is a murderer? Yes. But do I plan to enjoy every moment I spend trying to piece this together? Also yes.

"You're the reason I'm here," I say in an almost-whisper.

He seems to like that answer. Placing a hand under my chin, he tilts my face toward his. Then, he brings the bottle of vodka to my lips.

"Open," he says.

I open for it, and he fills my mouth with liquid smooth enough that it barely burns on the way down.

"Good girl," he says. His fingers run down the lanyard on my neck, then he lifts and inspects my pass. "See you backstage, Teagan."

I watch his muscular back as he goes, the bottle of vodka in his right hand.

Jesus fucking Christ. He told me to open my mouth and called me a good girl. My panties are wrecked.

Luca jumps up onto the stage and disappears around the corner. As he does, I'm met with dark eyes and a scowl.

Declan.

Why is he looking at me? Why is he looking at melike that?

I glance over my shoulder, wondering if perhaps that look is intended for someone else instead, but there's no one there. When I turn back, he's still there, and I meet that same harsh glare, indisputably meant for me. He slowly steps backward, not breaking eye contact until he's out of sight.

Well, that was fucking weird.

I realize the general admission guests have started to file in, so I make my way over to the VIP section, finding a spot on the left side of the stage.

The side I know Luca plays on.

A local band plays a short opening set before Gods of Tomorrow takes the darkened stage. A spotlight finds Declan, who pulls a knife from a sheath at his waist. He holds it above his head, the blade facing the floor, and the crowd goes absolutely wild. Girls in the VIP section shove their way toward the front-center stage, reaching for him.

After seeing the videos online, I thought I knew what to expect. In person, it's…different.

Declan approaches the edge of the stage, extending the knife toward the group of screaming girls. He beckons one of them to come closer, then, lowering his body onto the stage and lying flaton his stomach, he runs the blade across her collarbone. I watch deep red blood run down her chest, staining her white top red.

Well, shit.

Then, he runs his tongue over the area, licking it clean, sucking at the open wound, and I…

I…fuck. I want to say that I'm disgusted. Reading about it—the blood drinking—and watching the videos online, it looked like a performance and an unnecessary one at that. Watching it is something entirely different. I want it to be me. I want to suck the blood from his tongue; I can't explain it. I've never had an issue with blood. Like Blakely said, I've been obsessed with horror and crime my whole life, but I've never thought of it like this. There's just something…erotic about how wrong it is.

Declan stands and wipes his mouth with his forearm, staining it red. I force myself to avert my eyes, and they land on Luca, watching me from the darkened stage, a satisfied look on his face. I see a flash of teeth before the lights go up, and he starts strumming the intro to "Stained in Crimson."

I watch, enthralled from start to finish. Gods of Tomorrow blew up for a reason—their lyrics are haunting, and Declan's vocals only make them more so. I made it a point to memorize their set list and every word. I was partially convinced I'd come here and find his voice had been altered, that he'd either be lip-syncing the lyrics or he'd sound entirely different, but that isn't the case at all. It's soul-stirring—the kind of voice that sends chills up and down your spine—and their in-person performance is even more powerful.

An hour and a half later, they wrap up the set with "Rhapsody of Regret," and the stage goes dark again. I've never been to this venue, nor have I been backstage after a concert, so I'm unsure what to do next. I look around for some kind of secret line or back door when a group of girls blows past me, including the onewith the bloody neck. Instinct tells me I should follow—that they must know where they're going—so I do.